


Mask Off

by terrible420



Category: Skins (UK)
Genre: Aged-Up Character(s), Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Clubbing, Comfort Sex, Comfort/Angst, Dancing, Dark, Drug Dealing, Drugs, Eventual Smut, F/M, Inspired by Skins (UK), James Cook - Freeform, Light Angst, Mild S&M, New York, New York City, Organized Crime, Original Character(s), Party, Partying, Post-Canon, Post-Skins Fire, Rating: M, Recreational Drug Use, Relationship(s), Russian Mafia, Sex, Smut, post-skins rise
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2021-01-25
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:48:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 13,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24808054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/terrible420/pseuds/terrible420
Summary: Two souls meet and luxuriate in the ensuing tension.It's New York, baby! The night goes on for years and years.cook x OC, set post-rise
Relationships: cook/oc
Comments: 10
Kudos: 14





	1. I

It’s the third day of January in my twenty-sixth year when I first see him.  
  
His order is more notable than his face, at first. More notable than his accent, even. Cold brew with a double-shot. I tap the order brusquely into the tablet in front of me, worrying at my lip as I do.  
  
“...Lot of caffeine, huh?” Smiling weakly as I turn my head to look at him. He seems rough around the edges. Like he’s not really even here.  
  
“Jet-lag.” He replies curtly. I could have guessed that. New York, and this coffeeshop, sees a lot of accents, generally from immigrants. This part of Queens isn’t necessarily a tourist haven.  
  
“Okay, that’s three-fifty, will you be paying with cash or card? Or Apple Pay, or whatever.” I turn the tablet to him. He gazes at me for a long while, like he’s considering the concept of paying at all. But before I can make some fuss about the increasingly long line behind him, he starts rummaging in his pockets, counting bills.  
  
“Apologies, love. The money’s all the same color,” I exhale through my nose at this. Tourist. It is in this moment, as he’s using the corner of the counter to flatten out each individual bill, that I really take a good look at him. I won’t lie, he’s kinda hot. In that street-rat kind of way. He’s got this absurd blue striped rugby shirt on, under what looks like three separate jackets stacked upon one another. It’s cold, sure. But what kind of grown man doesn’t have a winter coat? I then scold myself for being so bourgeois. _Some people can’t afford a Patagonia or whatever-the-fuck, Mina._  
  
“Right, here’s four. Keep the change, love.” I have to customer-service stop myself from rolling my eyes at the second ‘love’ in five minutes. My least favorite English affectation.  
  
“Thanks, dude,” I say, fiddling with the change and dropping it into the tip jar, “Name?”  
  
He smiles this boyish, juvenile smile that ages him down from the thirtyish I guessed he was. Some mysterious duality of darkness and spunk in this guy that piques my interest. I tend to overthink with certain customers, daydream through a shared life story until they disappear out the glass doors. Maybe I see them again, but with the tourists I never do.  
  
“James,” he says. He then shuffles down the counter, tapping on it in threes as he waits for his drink. I type the name into the machine, closing out the order.

  



	2. II

It’s late in the day, so I’m surprised to see him curl up in the windowsill seat with his coffee, staring at nothing in particular, not even out the window. Seems he could bear to learn the art of people-watching if he’s going to be in town a while. I serve customer after customer until there’s no one left, except for Hannah’s friend, the frazzled college student whose name I know is Greg. He sheepishly orders his fifth house brew and retreats to his laptop, muttering to himself once in a while. 

Hannah sidles up to me now that the rush has died down, smirking devilishly. She interrupts my quiet moment with the book I’ve been slowly making my way through on my phone with the daily rundown of her favorite hotties du jour.

“Okay, so I know Blonde with Big Nose isn’t your type but can we at least admit his red top today was to die for?” 

“Sure, it was all right,” I chuckle lightly, “Couldn’t shake my deep fear that one of the buttons would pop off into my eye and blind me. Tight-ass shirt on that guy. Plus he’s gigantic”

She sighs dramatically, “I know, right? I’d climb him like a tree.” 

I glance again at the English guy in the corner. Something strange I notice is he hasn’t looked at his phone once. He’s just staring at nothing, lips curled slightly downward, fiddling with the napkin that came with his drink.

Hannah casts me a knowing, sidelong look, “Oohh, I see.”

Me, panicking: “No, God, jeez, no, he just seems weird!”

Her, skeptical: “Sure, Jan.”

Me, changing the subject: “Okay, no, but seriously, he hasn’t looked at his phone once, didn’t bring like a book or any work, he’s been here for hours. Doesn’t look like a guy from the street…. Or maybe he does, I don’t know.” Hannah rolls her eyes.

“Why do you always assume people without stuff to do are homeless, Mina?” I sour at this, knowing it’s a little true. 

“Ugh, don’t call me out. You know I wonder about people.”

“About hot people,”

“Shut up.”

Hannah giggles, walking away and wiping down counters as she does.   
I make a split second decision.

“Hey! Hey, dude. English lad,” he whips his head up, almost like a flinch, a moment of pure fury in his eyes. 

I regret it immediately, “Sorry. Just. Um. We’re closing up soon, and, uh…” and he makes these moves to apologize and leave, but I stammer with whatever levity I can muster, “No! No, you can hang out, I just wanted to know if you wanted a baked good or something, we’d throw them out otherwise.”

He smiles that boyish smile again, “Do I look like a charity case, then?” I can hear Hannah absolutely losing it in the back room.

“No, I just hate being wasteful is all.”

Greg pipes up, “Can I have one, too?” 

And Hannah shouts, “Shut up, Greg! Of course you can.”

English guy stands up, and I notice he walks a little crooked, like he has a limp or something.

“So do I get to choose?” he jabs a finger at the glass pastry case, “What even are these things?”

“Cinnamon roll, coffee cake, wheat muffin, blueberry muffin, corn muffin, different corn muffin, chocolate cookie, peanut butter cookie, black and white cookie… I could go on.”

“Well, it’s a far cry from Louis, but I wouldn’t mind a cinnamon roll.”

“Who?”

“Nothin’,” he shakes his head.

“...Okay.” And I pull out the least-stale looking roll, gingerly set it on a saucer, and carefully slide it towards him. 

“I’m James.” he says, apparently as thanks.

“I know,” I say lightly, avoiding eye contact. Okay, seeing him again up close, I have to admit he really is hot. And he smells like firewood, an unusual fragrance to meet in the city. He chuckles, mostly to himself, it seems.

Greg pipes up again, “Could I get a corn muffin?”

I close my eyes and smile to myself, “Sure thing, bud. Just a second.”

James lingers at the counter while I set up Greg’s muffin. Hannah seamlessly floats by to take it to his table, where he seems to have returned to his usual state of being completely engrossed in his work.

“So what brings you to Ridgewood?” I ask.

“Where?” James blinks dumbly. 

“You’re in Ridgewood, Queens right now.” I reply flatly.

“Ah. I thought this was Brooklyn.” 

“Close, but Brooklyn is about a half mile thataway,” I gesture vaguely southwest.

“Err, change of scenery I suppose…” he pulls his face into a noncommittal grimace, only to mask it by taking a massive bite of cinnamon roll. He holds a hand, which I now notice is scarred and bruised, under his chin to collect the crumbs. 

“What, the English weather was too gentle for ya?” 

He swallows, roughly, and laughs aloud at this.

“You could say that, yeah.” His teeth are sharp, jagged. Like a shark.

“You work?” I ask, taking a sip of my now-cold chai I’ve been nursing for the last two hours.

“This’n’that,” he says distantly. I won't broach the subject further. Hannah appears at my side, stacking mugs.

“When they asked you ‘Business or Pleasure’ at the airport, what did you say?” she asks, leaning curiously forward across the counter, ignoring my silent decision to avoid the topic.

“Pleasure, of course.” And I swear he looks right at me when he says it. But I’m too self-conscious to do shit about it.

“Fun! Have you been out yet?” Hannah coos, shaking her head from side to side, frizzy blonde hair bouncing as she does. 

“Nah, can’t say I have,” he scratches his chin, tosses his chestnut hair a little, “Dunno any good places, i s’pose.”

“Mina knows the best spots, she used to DJ at Berlin Under,” Hannah crows proudly.

“Stop, it was one time!” I seethe, feeling my cheeks glow bright red under the fluorescents. 

“Two times, and it was awesome. Last month she did a Dolly Parton x Lady Gaga night, everyone dressed like a gay cowboy, it was wild.” 

I kick Hannah lightly under the table, inhaling frustratedly. I clear my throat.

“Anyway… if you’re looking for a cool spot for tonight, there’s Fresh Leek doing a set at Nowadays, it’s a short walk from here.” I say politely. 

“Will youse be going?” James asks, tearing pieces off his cinnamon roll. 

Hannah pouts, says, “I have to catsit for my other boss, but I know Mina is headed there with some people!” With this, she returns to the machinations of closing up, leaving me alone.

“I haven’t been out in ages,” James muses, his mind clearly going elsewhere for a moment. 

“It’s pretty cool, you can really choose your vibe there,” I say.

“What d’you mean?”

“Like, I mean it’s an unseasonably nice day, so you could chill outside, have an overpriced beer, or dance inside, or downstairs… it’s a pretty huge place.”

“Cheers,” he takes another bite of his roll, chews, swallows, doesn’t break eye contact. “So, Mina, yeah?”

“Yep. Mina Potemkin, like the battleship.” I inwardly groan at my complete lack of street smarts. You shouldn’t just tell people your name like that. But here I am, dumb as rocks, divulging everything. May as well give this stranger my address and social security number while I'm at it. 

“Can’t say I know it.” 

“It’s a movie, don’t worry about it,” I smile. I realize I’m letting Hannah do all the work of closing, and I won’t hear the end of it if I don't start giving her a hand, so I begin idly closing containers and wiping down machines. 

“Well, Mina Potemkin… I won’t bother you more, hey? Thanks for the pastry. Maybe I’ll see you at, erm…”

“Nowadays,” I reply, suddenly a little sad.

“Sure. Thanks for the roll.” he grabs the saucer and wipes the crumbs into the trash can. He slides it back to me, just like I had done before. 

“Nowadays,” he repeats, taking one last long look at me before he walks out and disappears into busy Myrtle Avenue. 

I feel like I’ve been punched in the face.

Hannah appears like clockwork, rubbing my shoulders as if she were a boxing coach and I was about to throw down in the heavyweight championship. 

“Damn, Mina. He likes you.” she whispers.

“You know damn well I ain’t seeing that dude ever again.” I sigh and turn off the coffee machine, “cute, though. Really cute.”


	3. III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> requisite getting ready chapter

I’m biking down Myrtle like my life depends on it. Whizzing gloriously past Summerfield and Decatur, too-cold breeze messing up my dark brown hair. I shout in throaty Russian at the mean Muscovites who work at the butcher on the corner of my block, justifiably pissed that their truck yet again blocks the usual path to my doorway. I have to go in a lazy circle around the dead end where my street meets the cemetery and walk my bike the last few hundred yards to my doorway. Fumbling with my keys as I approach the door, I feel my pocket vibrate. 

Hannah: go to nowadays bitch!!!!!

Me: depends how I feel after dinner b

Hannah: hes gonna b there i guarantee it!

She sends a blurred picture of her boss’s cat, and I mumble, “aww,” to myself as I finally begin clambering up the stairs of the five-floor walkup to my apartment. I share my place with a college friend, Wendy, and a guy we met off Craigslist, Max. Wendy is from Baltimore, and while we weren’t close in school, postgraduate life drew us closer together. I recall her always being quiet when in a large group, but I find that she always has the most valuable things to say when we are alone together. Max, on the other hand, is furiously social, always congregated on the roof deck with a large collection of new and old friends, always ready for a party. These three divergent energies make for a surprisingly harmonious home life, and I appreciate it every day. As I enter my boxlike home on this Friday evening, however, harmony is nowhere to be found. 

“MINAAAAAA,” Max bellows from the living room, “the bitch is back!”

“Hello, all, hello,” I say, waving weakly as I slip my shoes off and shrug my jacket onto the hanger in the foyer. As far as I am aware the guests we have welcomed today are: Will, Brandon, Cedric (skate park boys), Indigo, Sally, Jonah (the ones with drugs), and Rique. Rique I love because he rarely speaks. When he does, it comes out like poetry. I nestle myself between him and Max on the sofa and investigate the weed Indigo brought. It is a lush purplish color, with bright orange trichomes creating a gorgeous contrast of colors. It’s pretty, this flower. I tap Indigo’s shoulder and she languidly turns her entire torso in my direction. 

“What’s up?” she asks through heavy-lidded eyes.

“What’s she called?” I present the flower. 

“Ah…” she takes it from my hand, peering at it and inspecting it from up close, “Jacaranda, I think.”

“Pretty!” I muse. Indigo thanks me like she’s responsible.

I lean way back into the sofa and shout into the room, “Who’s got the spliff?”

Rique shushes me, gently. “Me,” he says, pressing a light kiss on my shoulder and handing it to me. He says, “All yours, kid.”

It’s nearly finished, so I give him a Look, and he gives me a Look right back and begins the machinations. 

Max says, “So who’s going in for yayo? Pasha just told Jonah he’s on the way.”

I pat Max’s head, say, “You know I’m in.”

Sally: “Same.”

Indigo: “I’m good, I think.” 

Rique: “Me.”

Cedric, Brandon, Will (in unison): “Yerr.”

Max adjusts his glasses and stands up, “Aight, cash in, cash in, everyone.”

I go into my wallet and start counting the singles tipped out to me, knowing that Max or Jonah can exchange them. And I see a crumpled-up dollar, standing apart from the others. It doesn’t occur to me for a moment why it feels so different from the others. I stretch it out, flatten it against my knees, and stare at it for a long while. My heart jumps for a second when I realize. It came from _him_. I don’t know how I know, but somehow I do. I stare at the dollar incredulously, turning it over and over in my hand. Maybe wanting to feel his cells touch mine.

“Yo, could I get that though?” Max asks, outstretched hand.

“Oh! Uh, yeah. Sure. Sorry about that, hold on a second.” And I replace it with a different single, count them, and hand the wad to my roommate. The money passes hands to Jonah.

My phone buzzes again: 

Hannah: so ru going?

Me: yea most likely, went in on the yay so i’m committed lol

Hannah: yesssssss wish i was there

Me: if im up 2 it tomorrow theres also halflife at house of yes?

Hannah: plz…..

And she sends another cat picture, this one different than the first. An angry-faced persian with buck teeth. I snort. 

Rique, suddenly, passes me a blunt, whose saccharine perfume fills my nostrils. 

He smiles, “Blunt for the lady?”

“Of course, my dear.” I bow my head slightly, accept the offering. I make a move to relax, but then remember the hard door. 

“Rique, come with me to the room? Gotta get dressed.” I get up without waiting for an answer. I know he’ll follow. 

Blunt in my mouth, I step into my cluttered bedroom and start to unbutton my jeans. I shake out my hair and tie it up, blinking at my plain, unmade face in the mirror. 

“We’re all doing red tonight,” Rique plucks the blunt from my mouth, gently spinning his septum ring around. I peel my pants off, taking my socks with them. I don’t bother dropping them in the hamper. 

“Okay, so, red. Red, red, red.” I rummage through drawers and then migrate to the closet, slamming hangers to and fro. 

“I love those long red boots,” Rique says, gesticulating with the blunt to the chunky thigh-high go-go boots I bought at Trash when I was fifteen. 

“Yeah, I think they’re for sure on the table but I wouldn’t know what to wear with ‘em.” Maybe I borrow Wendy's velvet minidress? Where even is she?”

“Wendy's getting beers, should be back any minute now.”

As if on command, I hear a light knock on the door. 

“Wendy!” I bray.

“How was work?”

“ _Please_ tell me you’re not wearing that red minidress tonight and that I can borrow it, _please_.”

“Ha-ha, I copped some wine-colored bell bottoms at Buffalo Exchange today, so,” She approaches and pulls me into a hug from behind, pinching my cheeks as I stare at myself in the mirror, “it’s your lucky day, baby.”

“You know I love you, right?”

“Always,” She snatches the blunt from Rique, takes a long, steady drag, and croaks, “Beers? Beers,” as she walks out. 

I pull faces in the mirror, astounded at my own self-deprecating vanity. I slather on some moisturizer and widen my eyes, trying to see if there’s organic ways to show them off in all their bluish-gray glory without looking psychotic. There are not. I’m just about to start on my eye makeup when Wendy reappears, clinking bottles in hand and a slinky red velvet slip draped in the crook of her arm.

“Mm, you’re the best.” I say, glancing at her sideways.

“Thanks, S,” says Rique, exchanging blunt for beer. I hear him pop the cap off with a lighter, and see it fly across the room out of the corner of my eye.

“Rique, I better not step on any bottle caps barefoot tomorrow morning,” I warn, foreboding in my tone. I watch him in the mirror as he sheepishly fumbles around the floor. I swipe some terracotta-reddish shadow on my lid, and apply a darker burgundy in the crease. Wendy and Rique quietly converse about something-or-other, I hear Max and the others laugh raucously in the other room. I brush away any fallout and turn to my friends. 

“Yes? No? We good?”

“Absolutely,” says Wendy.

“Perfect,” says Rique. 

I beam. Wendy presents the dress, and I slide into it fairly easily, my waifish frame drowning a little in the size L she tends to wear. But it hangs pleasantly on me, I suppose. I silently hand my beer to Rique, who effortlessly pops the cap off, this time catching it in his other hand. 

“Thanks,” I sit back on my desk chair, spinning slightly, tapping my bare feet on the hardwood floor. My nervous energy must be palpable, because only a moment of quiet passes before someone says something.

“Okay, what is it?” Wendy raises her eyebrows at me.

“Maybe there’s somebody at Nowadays I might see.” I scratch at the bottle label with an almost-broken nail. 

“Who?” Rique demands, pressing his body forward in fascination.

“I mean, it’s actually no one, just some tourist from the shop.”

“Look at you, all predatory on some poor German!” Wendy laughs, throwing her hair back, the beads in her dreads jangling a little. 

“English, actually.” Wendy's face falls. 

“Ugh, boring, don’t get my hopes up for some Anglo. We don’t accept anyone west of Amsterdam in _this_ house.”

The corners of Rique’s lips turn up slightly, and he nods serenely.

“English boy have a name?” 

“James, but… I doubt he’ll even show up, honestly, and if he does he’s probably going to be in a sea of other weird English assholes, and I don’t even know why I even said anything, I don’t know--”

“A-bup-bup-bup-bup!” Wendy presses a finger to my lips, “We will see at Nowadays.”

  
  



	4. IV

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> conversations with friends

By the time Pasha arrives, I’ve zipped up my boots and re-emerged into the living room, this time draping myself onto a pouf in the corner by the window. Pasha and I don’t know each other nearly as well as he and Jonah know each other, but the fact we both speak Russian means we share little asides the few times we meet. 

“Thanks, Pasha,” I call across the room in Russian.

“Anything for the best,” he calls back.

Everyone is thrumming a little, a collective excitement washing over the whole room as Pasha distributes tiny glass vials to each of us. The little lids, all different colors and emblazoned with smiley faces, break up the sea of red clothes as people begin to untwist them. Max and Wendy set out a mirror on the coffee table, lightly wiping it of dust before the throng begins to cut out their respective lines. Rique and I, too far away from the table to participate, rest his phone on the radiator and resolve to just cut our own lines there. 

“Did you get the English boy’s number?” Rique asks, not looking up from his MetroCard and powder. 

“No, I don’t even know why I mentioned anything, honestly, I think he was just being nice when he said he’d be there.”

“Could be he’s so provincial he shows up at nine and leaves at eleven,” Rique turns his face away from the phone to laugh to himself. I smirk in response.

“Could be....”

I’m given first dibs, Rique and I don’t follow cutter’s rights. I choose the smaller of the two lines, knowing I ought to pace myself (and that I prefer bathroom keybumps in any case). Up my nose it goes, and I hold my head back, rest my finger under my left nostril to catch the fallout. I sniff again, hard, and wrinkle my nose. 

Rique snorts much more elegantly. So elegantly I wouldn't even call it snorting. The more clinical term of  _ insufflation _ seems much more appropriate. So he  _ insufflates _ this blow and presses a long, graceful finger on the side of his nose, then rubs his nose bridge gently, as if to help the drugs on up. With the fingers on his other hand, he swipes it along the phone screen, collecting the last vestiges of the sin we had committed. He offers me a finger and I dart my tongue out, lizardlike, to leave him the rest. He’s nearly twice my height, he probably needs about twice the coke to get anywhere. 

Someone says they want to call an Uber, and the petulantly angry leftist within me makes some weak move to chastise them for this choice, but by the time I’m emotionally resilient enough to do so, two-thirds of the people in my house are gone. It seems Max and the skate park boys have predictably skated away, which is understandable considering the apparently scrumptious hills involved in the route over. I’m kind of interested in slamming a few beers on the walk to Nowadays with Rique and Wendy. I coax them with the concept of dinner despite their reticence to walk the  _ very long and difficult _ twenty-five minutes. 

“We could get tacos on the way,” I try.

“I actually think Malecon stays open later today,” Wendy muses, almost to herself.

“Do they have takeout though? I don’t want to sit with all the  _ tíos _ looking like this,” Rique gestures vaguely to his red leather chaps and stilettos, so tall he looks like he’s on stilts.

“Why wouldn’t they? This is New York,” Wendy says flatly, by way of explanation. 

So we go, looking like some sort of gang out of a 1980s sci-fi movie, which for our neighborhood isn’t necessarily strange. 

Rique feels exuberant first, catwalking down Myrtle, flipping what little hair he has and voguing at the little old Polish ladies heading home for their dinner. He thrives on their bemused looks, which are consistently followed by light smiles. 

Wendy feels it next, and I’m starting to regret how little I took at the house. She’s giggling into my ear, spreading a kind warmth onto it, which I appreciate as the evening temperature swings into lower realms than I could have predicted. Still making fun of me for finding an English man attractive. 

But then I feel it, and I’m trapped inside the world of my phone, fruitlessly searching on every social media (TikTok included, inexplicably) for any “James” from England in New York, which of course is a useless endeavor. I even swipe madly through Tinder seeking him, thinking maybe a secondary avenue of connection between us may confirm something. What that something is still remains a mystery to me but I am desperately seeking something. I’m hungry for it. Also I am hungry for tacos. The latter hunger, however, I am making the conscious choice to ignore. I will probably nibble at some side nopales and move right along, citing cocaine as the source of my “lost appetite”. Dinner was, after all, just a ruse. 

We turn a sharp corner towards Malecon, and Wendy is like, “Do you think a Mexican place would have pupusas?” and Rique is like, “Oh my god, no, why would you think that,” So I offer them the requisite chuckle that sort of interaction deigns, and halfway pretend to study the menu. 

It is when I have reached the section on tortas that I realize I am gently pressing my left hand on the fannypack that my wallet resides in, where within the folds there lies a dollar. I blush.

Having ultimately decided it was too cold to eat outside, we're seated on some cherry red vinyl seats having our dinner.  Over two sets of tacos and disappointingly abundant serving of the cactus slices, the three of us exchange retellings of cursory stories: of wild nights on study abroads, aggressive immigrant relatives, and cookouts where secrets are revealed. Our minds are unable to focus on a single narrative at a time, so they overlap clumsily and become complete nonsense until we find another subject to fixate on. Mine however, is grappling with this needling anticipation, this unsettling excitement for what I am unlikely to find at Nowadays. Or rather, who. To distract myself I zone out and wonder if i can recall if there were ever any other strangers I have been like this with. Beyond a month-long teenage obsession with the black-haired boy in my building that stank of patchouli, I can't think of any others. He really was something, though. Apropos of absolutely nothing, I start to tell Wendy and Rique the story.

“He was like, six-foot-two, I had no idea how old he was or his name, I mean I knew his last name, obviously, I always checked the mailboxes until I narrowed down which one belonged to his family, Kornreich, I think?” I’m motor-mouthing harder the more momentum I gain, relishing in the rapt attention I'm suddenly getting. 

“He, like, reeked, of patchouli, which on any other occasion would put me off completely, but we were always in the elevator at the same time in the morning  _ and _ in the afternoon, and before our schedules, uh, converged, I guess, it was always this guy a few years younger than me with  _ turkey bacon _ in his mouth, anime-character style, it was absolutely awful that early in the day. Pair that with having just taken antidepressants or whatever, absolutely nauseating. So this, like, austere, almost medicinal, patchouli smell was the first thing that really hit me. Something about that, uh, cleansing elevator moment was kind of hot?”

Rique stops me with a gentle hand, then says, “When you’re sixteen, everything is hot.”

Wendy slams her fist on the table, perhaps too aggressively, slurping on her mango licuado, “FACTS!”

“So anyway I spent like a month timing myself perfectly to get into the elevator just as he would, I’d stand in front of it waiting for it to stop at the sixteenth floor before pressing the call button. I started dressing kind of slutty, and you all know I was, uh, chunky back then, so I must have looked like a salami…” Wendy seems to sour at this, narrowing her eyes ever-so-slightly. I ignore her and press on, elated that my obsession du jour seems to have briefly left the front of my mind. 

“And THEN, after weeks of building myself up to say  _ something _ to him, I decided, I remember it was a  _ Wednesday,  _ to make some comment about Mitt Romney or some other bullshit to make myself sound smart, and he wasn’t there. Obviously I was completely heartbroken, and for another week I didn't see him at all. Until the NEXT Wednesday... “ and I lean my entire upper body over the table, getting almost nose-to-nose with Rique, who is smiling serenely.

“I saw him that afternoon going up the elevator with a boy, who he kissed. So that was the end of that.” I lean back into my seat, appreciating the pregnant pause that follows. 

“Jeez, Mina, that was anti-fucking-climactic.” Wendy finally says.

“Mm. Sorry about that.”

“Let’s get the check,”  Rique finally says, standing up and approaching the cashier.


	5. V

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Cheers.” He purposefully clinks his glass against mine. Purposefully looks right back in my eyes. It does something.

We hear the music from over two blocks away, before we approach the graffitied underpass we have to cross to find the entrance. I’m back to scouring social media, being unusually quiet because of it. The bass starts to thump somewhere low in my gut, tumbling the three pieces of cactus I swallowed around and around my belly. Then the treble slowly joins it, melodious and thick, spreading high into my chest and throat. I finally give up on my phone. Slipping it back into my fannypack, I deftly pull my ID out and flip it anxiously between my fingers as we approach the line. My brain says, ‘queue’ and I almost laugh. England certainly feels closer than four thousand miles away this evening. We exchange cursory greetings with Will and Cedric, who are further ahead, and they recount an awful tale of Brandon needing to go home and babysit his younger twin brothers yet again. We make sad noises and join some obvious townies at the end of the line (queue). Eavesdropping on them, we learn they are from Connecticut, work in finance, and commute. Of course they do. Wendy and I exchange needlessly judgmental looks in response to this, but Rique is making eyes at some lad further down the line, as they seem to know each other from before. 

I start to crane my neck as far up as it’ll take me, surveying the crowd, seeking that something that I was clamoring for earlier. I feel something electric in the air, fizzling soundlessly, but I’m unable to make out if that’s because of the drugs or my own nerves.

Before any of us can make heads or tails of it, we tumble past the bouncer and toss ourselves unceremoniously into the garden area of the club, a summer addition to their usual spaces that remains in use on these kinds of nights. It’s populated by clusters of kids smoking in darkened corners. I scan each group, analyzing face after face before I see my cluster begin splintering. Then I am immediately distracted by Wendy pulling Rique to the port-a-potty in yet another darkened corner. I’m not interested. I make a sorry face and plop myself down on some bench that has appeared under my ass. Again, like a blanket on a child, I return to the familiar, motherly comfort of my cool-toned phone screen. I am consumed by this feeling now, the lack of external stimulus and the now-soured high pulling me deeper into the realm of Online. It is when I have licked my cracked lips for the third time in the cool winter air that I decide, finally, to spend far too much money on a drink. While idling in yet another line, creating exhaust with my now-visible breath, I decide I'm going to drink a vodka tonic, because although gin is clear the herbaceousness triggers flavor-associated caloric fears. And I ruminate on this, knowing what I will ultimately shout to the bartender. I still luxuriate in the internal debate. 

But then I hear it, clearer than anything. It slices cleanly through the dull hum of humanity I let myself become accustomed to. That voice again.   
I whip my head around in a clumsy circle, my body following. I make a full 180. I reacquaint myself with my original position, opening and closing my mouth stupidly, like a fish. My eyes blinking furiously, seeking the source of the sound. Then I hear my own name. 

Max bounds in from nowhere. Asking for me to also get him a drink. I start making affirmative noises and awkwardly fumbling with his cash when I feel warmth on the two inches of flesh between my neck and my jacket collar. Then I finally turn and see what I was looking for. Max disappears as quickly as he had appeared. I am mesmerized.  
He’s glowing rather beautifully in the disco lights, his flesh seeming less weathered than it had under the harsh fluorescents earlier. He’s wrinkling his nose, sniffing aggressively. But then he sees me, and his shark teeth make another appearance, glinting slightly. He’s smiling. Looking right into my face, and smiling. My body doesn’t know what to do with this information, but he makes choices in my stead. He’s beside me now, still resting the gentle weight of his arm on my clavicle. I clench my jaw and place my hand on his. Something about the saxophone line that’s playing right now is doing things. He says something I can't decipher. I smile and nod violently. I look up at him and say, 

“Crazy actually seeing you here,”

“Could’ve been anywhere, hey?” At this I guffaw, ugly and horse-faced. I catch myself just a moment too late. He’s laughing, now, too. It fails to comfort me, so I shrink somewhat. Then we are in front of the bar. An excessively pierced bartender looks at us, question marks in his eyes.

“Vodka tonic,” I squeak. 

“Just a pint,” says James. I purse my lips. This will warrant questions.

“A WHAT?” shouts the bartender.

“Oh, ah… erm…”

“A BEER!” I shout right back.

“WHAT KIND?”

I turn to James, clumsily recalling my own sloshed evenings abroad, “Blonde or... uh... red?”

He gives me a confused look, but his lips mouth ‘red’.

“JUST GET HIM A BROOKLYN ALE,” I say, not entirely sure this is even appropriate. I turn back to him and press my knuckles against his chest (which I notice now is at eye level, knowledge that does things to my belly I can’t even begin to describe). 

While we wait, James engages with my flesh in ways I would ordinarily despise. He squeezes my shoulders; he runs a finger lazily up my wrist and back down to the tip of my middle finger, then back up again, ad nauseam. I have no desire to wonder what, if anything, this means. So I indulge in it. The drinks appear, and I remember I’ve forgotten Max’s drink. But I promise myself to keep the cash and return it when the chance arises. There are more important endeavors on this night. I clutch my vodka tonic for dear life, still dozy as we find our way out of the drinks line. James corrals us both to a series of benches cloistered behind an oak grove somewhere further away and sits me down like I'm incapable of doing it myself. To some degree he’s not wrong about that, but a part of me resents the implication in any case. He stands opposite me, takes a big sip.

“You look fantastic,” he finally says. I look up at him, directly into his eyes. This seems to do nothing.

“Thanks. You too.” It’s an instinct. I don’t catch myself this time.

“I’m wearing the same thing I was before.” James does a half-smile.

“I know,” and I chortle lightly at this. 

“Cheers.” He purposefully clinks his glass against mine. Purposefully looks right back in my eyes. It does something.

“How did you get in.” I say, not really asking.

“Ah, well, funny story--”

“Do you want to do some coke.” I interrupt, again not really asking.

“Fuck’s sake,” James suddenly does something dark and tempestuous with his eyes. This fades as quickly as it came, morphing into something much more patronizing.   
“Is it good?”

“I suppose,” I mumble, turning my gaze to my fannypack. With a pained look I'm not sure I can mask, I start fumbling around, seeking that one tiny pocket. James perches himself on the edge of the bench, several inches from me. It’s almost a careful movement. I find what I'm looking for and turn myself back to his strikingly square head. I am piously presenting the goods. I am rolling vocabulary in my mind, creating pathetic rhymes.

“Looks all right,” He says. His knee digs into mine. I wonder if he can tell. I lick my lips. I take my first sip and somewhat relish the burning of the vodka on my mouth, rubbed red and raw by this junction of the evening. 

Something outside of me says, ‘this isn’t your first time’, and ‘why don’t you cut a couple lines, then, big boy,’ like those aren’t completely comical things to say. But before I know it, James is chopping up some lines on his android and telling me things. 

“I used to be called Cook,”

“Why aren’t you called that anymore?”

“Things. Stuff. Y’know.”

“I simply do not know.”

“Fair enough.”

And honestly, it kept hitting me strangely how often he said ‘fair enough,’ and how much I sounded like a whore, and how much I was behaving like someone I could not comprehend. And it was bugging me out. 

“Do I sound like a whore?” I asked, thinking it perfectly on topic. 

“What?” 

“Never mind.”

He sniffs, loudly enough that it feels almost brave. Or foolhardy, depending on how you look at it. It’s endearing.


	6. VI

“So… what _do_ you do, Cook?” I ask, starting to enjoy how that name nestles into my mouth.

  
“This and that.”

  
“Not good enough. I’ll take my coke away, try it and see.” I bat my hands playfully in his direction, finding my footing.

  
“The UK branch of my company sent loads of us down ‘ere,” he fiddles with the flesh of his septum briefly, then drops his hands to the phone, passing it in my direction, careful to keep it out of the wind.

  
“What’s the company?” I feel like I’m showing my hand, asking this. I am sure he and I both know that he could say any name and I’d accept it. And yet… I am in a peculiar mood to pry.

  
“Private security,” he says, tersely, rummaging in his pocket for something.

  
“So, like, a bodyguard?” I ask, and that darkness I had noticed earlier thunders back into his eyes. He looks into the distance for a moment, still rummaging, and then seems to return to Earth, looking right at me as he pulls out a pack of cigarettes. He brings the box to his face, his breath creating silvery plumes all around it, and pulls a cigarette into his mouth.

  
Through gritted teeth, he gestures to me, “Fag?”

  
I widen my eyes, then whip my head around, wondering if anyone else heard, “Oh my god.”

  
I exhale sharply through my nose. I lower my eyelids and purse my lips, and I hum as I gingerly pluck a cigarette from its box, which I realize is absolutely falling to pieces, “How to say this, Cook? How exactly to tell you…”

His eyes widen in response, and then he laughs raucously through his teeth, still gripping the unlit cigarette.

  
“Ah-- don’t bother, I remember now. I knew a lad from Chicago,” he begins. I like how his vowels sound, all rounded and earthy. As he continues his sordid tale, I find a lighter and go to work.  
“...and we all were _losin_ ’ it, I tell ya, losin’ it, ‘cos he had no idea, yeah?”

  
I smile, wryly. I am bored now. And with boredom comes power.

  
“Yup, slang _is_ different in different places.” I say this so dryly, with such vicious sarcasm that I hope he forgets I was puttering about the same topic just moments before. He squints. I think, he must know this game, and I tap out some cocaine onto his phone. Against my better judgment, I jump a little when it vibrates against my thighs. A message, from one mysterious “JJ”. I sit there, holding the baggie in one hand and my library card in the other. I think I am sort of asking him to acknowledge it with my paralyzed body language. He cranes his neck over my shoulder, scooting closer than ever. I feel his heat on the back of my neck, on my elbow, on my hip. He seems to see something I don’t, because he shrugs and gestures to go right ahead, so I do. I re-roll the bill that had unfurled on the bench between us and go right ahead.

  
When I pick my head back up again, the screen blinds me once again and tickles with a second vibration, a second message. I run my middle finger along the length of the phone and put it in my own mouth. I hand it back to Cook, noticing it vibrate briefly as it leaves my hand.

  
“Christ, JJ…” Cook rapid-fire types something back, and sighs, “I love him… but Christ, JJ.”

  
“Who’s JJ?”

  
“A friend from college-- erm. I suppose you’d say high school. Sort of. It’s your last years before university.”

  
“Cool that you’re still in touch with people like that. I graduated and never saw anyone again. Moved a borough away and have avoided every BBL’d Russian twentysomething in Brighton Beach.”

  
Cook laughs at this, and I’m seeing that there’s a lighter and less tense energy in it. I ask him something a little ridiculous, considering my own sorry situation.

  
“Do you like food?”

  
“‘Course I do. Who doesn’t?”

  
I groan inwardly at this, but make no moves to challenge him. I feel that maybe I am capable of scratching a long-ignored itch in this man.

  
“Tell me about a time you ate a food you love, and you regretted it.” He narrows his eyes, then. Furrows eyebrows, tugs at the left ear. I notice an abandoned piercing hole, wonder what he might have looked like years ago. He pulls his lips from side to side, deliciously bites his lip, pondering.

  
He puts a hand on my knee, maybe by accident, and says, “Yes. I remember now. A friend made me a cake. Double chocolate cookie. Homemade-like. And it was my seventeenth birthday. And I was so pissed, I ate the whole thing. I felt awful afterwards...Oh, fuck me. What a night that was.” As he becomes the raconteur, I begin putting my things back in my fannypack. Once he’s finished, I begin to stare at his hand on my leg, like I've only noticed it just now.

  
I don’t respond for a minute, completely focused on the absolutely electric sensation that is attacking my kneecap, but I manage to mumble, “and then what?”

  
“We, erm, crashed a wedding.” I turn up to him. He gives me that toothy smile. Without thinking, I reach up and clutch his earlobe between my numbed fingers.

  
“Ow! You’ve got cold hands, ain’t ya?” With this, he presses his unreasonably warm hand against his ear, closing mine in. I widen my eyes, suddenly deep within the wordless clutches of the drugs.

  
Something outside of me says, “I want to kiss you, is that okay even if I don’t know you? Is that crazy?”

  
Seeming taken aback, Cook roughly pulls my legs over his own. I myself am taken aback, and we breathe in each other’s space there for a minute.

  
Then he asks, “Why do you want to kiss me?”

  
I say, “I don’t think I can answer that question.”

  
He purses his lips, gnaws at the inside of his cheek. He puts our hands together in his lap, “I’ve gotten past the point in my life where I can accept uncertainty.”

  
I swallow, loudly.

  
“Oh.” I say.

  
“Yeah,” he replies, still breathing in my air.

  
“But you didn’t answer my question,” I try, a demoness seeping into my voice.

  
“I… didn’t.”

  
I swear that his face is inching closer.

  
I ignore the fact that mine might be, too.

  
I grab his jacket collar, instinctively. Drowning in that firewood smell. I’m high. He sighs.

  
“All right, then, love. Come on now.” His palm disappointingly presses against my sternum. Pushing away.

  
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I fling my head back, letting my legs swing back over, ‘by accident’, “I’m really high,” I moan, putting on this awful affectation to sell the part.

  
“You aren’t.”

  
I stop in my tracks there, my languid movements frozen in stasis. I crack my neck.

  
“Fuck do you know about it.” I grunt, walls up. I am not sure if I am doing a good job at containing the humiliated blush I feel creeping up my neck and cheeks. He still says nothing.

  
I angrily press my knees together, wrapping my ankles around each other, stewing in my shame.

  
I ask it again.

  
“Do you think I’m a whore?”

  
“Nah… nah. Seriously, nah. I just think it’s not the right moment. I would if I could.”

  
“Cheap, Cook.”

  
“I’m not bein’ cheap. I’m serious.” He takes a long pull off his cigarette. Grits his teeth, squeezes the hand he’s still grappling on to.

  
“Trust me.”

  
I exhale and remember my drink, creating condensation on the agave pot behind us. I take it and completely detangle myself from him to drink it. I gaze up at him as I sip, hoping I am alluring.

  
“Did you come here with friends?” Cook asks, having followed my lead and reacquainted himself with his beer.

  
“Yeah, I imagine they’re around. Out and about. I owe one of them a drink. Or his money back.”

  
“Shaggy boy with the specs?”

  
“Yeah, the glasses guy, yeah.”

  
“What’s he to ya?” I make a sour face at this. It feels presumptuous of him to ask.

  
“My… roommate?” I reply coolly.

  
“All right then.”

  
I become, suddenly, sick of this. The tension is gone and it’s not fun anymore.

  
“So what makes this ‘not the right moment’?” I can hear my pitch increasing each syllable.

  
“Dunno.” Cook presses a hand along his jawline, massaging it slightly, “maybe it feels all like something I've done before, long time ago. When I was a different person."

  
“I mean, I feel you, but that’s also… not really my business. So you either came here for something or you didn’t. I don’t know how useful beating around the bush is anymore.” I take an emphatic, loud sip of my vodka tonic.

  
“Fair enough, fair enough…” He replies. I roll my eyes. Cook drops his hand from his face, faces me for a second, then laughs-- what seems like mostly to himself.

  
I continue, “carpe diem or whatever? Otherwise I’ll just catch up with my people and you’re welcome to -- to come along or whatever,” I nearly catch myself when i start to regret my offer, “but really, seriously. Don’t feel obligated if you don’t want to. I just don’t really know what you want otherwise.”

  
“Ain’t it possible a man wants to have a laugh with a pretty girl?”

  
“Sure it is, I’m just telling you I don’t know if I have the attention span for that.”

  
“You say that ‘cos you don’t know me yet,” he grins. Cheekily.

  
“Too true." I take a long, last sip, before putting my drink back on the plant pot. I cross my legs, the image of Sharon Stone burning in my mind. I lean forward.

  
"So show me,” I purr. I’m astounded by my own bravery.


	7. VII

Cook finishes his beer with a speed I had only seen from German tourists before this night, and groans to himself. He re-twists his body in my direction.

“You are… something I have not had in a long time.” He declares.

“Bold of you to refer to me as something you ‘have’,” I tease, eyes heavy-lidded. Am I being sexy, sensual? I hope so.

“D’you want to dance?” He asks. 

“No. I have a better idea. A cheaper one.” Without saying anything else, I pick myself up off the bench, with some effort. My head spins slightly, “Come on, dude, let’s go.”

“Go… where?” asks Cook, unfazed but evidently curious.

“My fuckin’ house. I can show you something cool.” He eyes me with skepticism, perhaps wondering what the hell he paid any cover for in the first place. 

“You wouldn’t be trying to take advantage of me, would ya?”

“I would  _ never _ .” I sing, patting myself down to make sure I have everything.

“What about your-- your  _ people _ ?” Cook mimics me, patting himself down. I ignore when he briefly pulls his shirt up, just enough for me to spy that delicious patch of skin between hem and waistband. Yes, Mina ignored it. She did. 

I hear my own name. Wendy and Rique appear from nowhere, bouncing on their toes, vibrating. 

Wendy: “No way,  _ this _ is him?”

Rique: “Wow.”

Me, bright red in the cheeks: “You all shut the fuck up.”

“Ain’t ya going to introduce me?” Cook scolds, massaging a shoulder-- almost possessively. 

“Um. Yeah,” I shrug my shoulder out of his grip, self-conscious, “Wendy, Rique, this is Jame-- Cook. James Cook?” I try, not sure if that’s entirely correct. Cook nods and makes greeting noises.

He presents an absurdly vascular hand to my two friends, shaking both their hands vigorously. In the way everyone’s dad does. It shows his age somewhat. Dates him a little. 

Wendy gives me this sidelong look like  _ okay i know you implied he was hot but goodBYE i was unprepared for this _ and Rique lets his feelings fly across his face as they come: Shock, approval, inquisitiveness, in that order. Cook just sort of stands there, knowing an entire conversation is being had in front of him. He just doesn’t speak our language. Tough break for a foreigner, I suppose. 

“We were just about to head out.” I announce, bracing for the challenges I am bound to get in response. But I don’t get what I'm anticipating.

Rique abruptly hugs me. He whispers in my ear, “Magnificent. Go home, bitch.” I beam, embarrassed and in spite of myself. 

I squeeze him back and hiss, “I’m just taking him to see the view,” at this Rique kisses me hard on the cheek, presumably in approval. 

I hear Wendy start to interrogate Cook. My heart leaps. 

“Leave him alone, Wendy,” Rique cries, gathering her in his arms and pulling her back into the throng, “You two have a good night, be safe!”

Wendy hoots, “USE CONDOMS!” as she disappears into the crowd. 

A long pause. I focus on my own breathing. 

“So. Your fuckin’ house?” Cook breaks the silence. 

“My fuckin’ house, let’s go.”

I start to weave myself through the flock of dancers, becoming liquid as I compress my flesh between strangers. I sometimes call out, “still there?”, not necessarily waiting for the “yup!” reply I consistently get from Cook behind me. He follows me the whole way out, finally being spat out in the side street, thumping bass still audible through the tall fence. Cook leans back on the fence, lighting another cigarette. I walk in lazy circles around him, thinking recklessly. We lock eyes for a moment before I pluck the cigarette from his fingers. 

“No going back now!” I exclaim, suddenly bursting into a sprint, cigarette still between my fingers. 

“Hey! Hey, Mina!” I hear Cook squawk after me, anxiety in his voice. I refuse to slow down. I approach the crest of the hill at the end of the block and look back at him, once. I see Cook power walking towards me. I cup my hands around my mouth and howl to the wide open sky, unhinged. Cook breaks into a run, catching up with me inch by inch. I cackle breathlessly and pitch myself down the street, cantering downhill like my life depends on it. Cook keeps calling my name, his voice getting louder as he approaches. 

“What the  _ fuck _ are you doing?” he cries behind me. 

“Getting my workout!” I shout back. I take a long, unnecessary hit of the cigarette. The downhill I had been using to my advantage flattens, and I can hear Cook’s thundering footsteps slamming against the concrete, the sound ricocheting from building to building. I decelerate, breathing hard. I finally stand in a crosswalk, legs splayed, Vetruvian Man pose, in the middle of the street. I hold the cigarette aloft, teasing Cook as he jogs towards me.

“Give me that.” He demands, reaching for it. I leap away, tossing my body in whatever direction it goes in, taking pointed, bratty drags of the cigarette. I guess this is what I've decided I'm going to do-- to punish him for humiliating me before. I may be a child. 

“I’m serious, Mina, those are expensive here!” he starts to whine. I am becoming more and more acquainted with the teenage Cook, the spoilt brat underneath the hard veneer. It reminds me of myself. 

“Fine! Fine. Here.” I present him the cigarette, and tap on it lightly-- to politely dispose of the ash that had accumulated at the tip. 

He eyes me, wearily and somewhat apprehensively, before carefully extending an arm. Since I make no moves to snatch it back, he finally draws it from my extended fingers. 

We stand there for a while, me like a predatory animal in crimson go-go boots, him maintaining eye contact, taking unpleasantly long drags. Blowing smoke rings, thicker this time of year in twenty degrees fahrenheit. They dissipate two storeys up, melting into the light breeze. 

I catch my breath, finally, breaking into a smirk. 

“Okay but could I also get a hit?”

“Oh, after all that?”

“I mean it’s hard to smoke while you’re playing Usain Bolt.” I flip my hair, catwalk a bit. I pirouette back towards him, hand outstretched, “please?”

Cook laughs out loud, more to the sky than anyone else. He hands me the cigarette and we start walking in the direction of my apartment. He shakes his head, laughs again, and exclaims, “cocaine, man. New Yorkers. You’re all mad, you are.”

“You are…. Correct!” I bow my head politely, “good assessment. Mad like angry  _ and _ like crazy. In equal parts.”

“It’s probably my favorite part about this place. Most of the time you can’t tell if anyone’s serious about anything. Or even really invested. It’s like you set it up so you can always, at any moment, walk away.”

I stop in my tracks, mulling it over for a minute. 

“You know, that’s a really good way of putting it. Remind me how long you’ve been here?”

Cook balks at this, and sputters, “Erm-- eh.. A wee-- nah,  _ two _ weeks. But it’s not my first time.”

“Oh! How many times have you been here?”

“Just twice. Once to visit a friend of a friend, another time on my own. Business, that.”

“Oh, wait, who’s the friend? On the off chance I know her.”

“She’s back in London now… but she lived not far from where you work for a time. I was there… reminiscing, I guess. Her name is Cassie?”

“Cassie… Hm. I did once meet a Cassie at a party, but this one was Serbian, so I’m not sure it’s the same one.”

“Cassie Ainsworth? Blonde, tiny, says  _ wow _ a lot?”

“Hah, doesn’t really ring a bell, no. I figure I’d remember someone like that.”

“I think anyone would, she was quite a--” he clears his throat, pauses for another drag, “a character.”

“Right…” I muse, as I abruptly turn a corner. Cook scrambles a bit to follow, then offers me the cigarette. I take it gleefully. 

Then he asks, “Aren’t your friends worried you’ve gone off with a stranger?”

“Nobody worries about me. I take care of my damn self.”

“Fair enough.”

“Jesus!” I snap, “would you  _ stop _ saying that shit? It’s so annoying, I can’t explain why exactly, but it feels judgmental and also like you’re copping out on having a real answer to anything?” I make it a question to soften the blow. 

Cook’s eyes widen dramatically, like it’s the first time anyone’s ever come for him like this. To myself, I acknowledge I’m still punishing him a little. It’s like I can’t stop myself. 

“You’re not wrong,” he says, “it’s true you’re… Odd in a disarming way. I feel like I’m going to embarrass myself in front of you, and… You seem like nothing can embarrass you.” 

I howl with laughter, “Fuck  _ outta _ here, man! I am in a permanent state of  _ shame _ , doofus. You really must be from a small town.” I accelerate my pace, suddenly uncomfortable with our closeness.

He matches my pace, reaching out for the cigarette. I pass it back in his direction, and continue, 

“I mean, sorry, I’m an asshole. I just can’t take a compliment… and I think I’m doing a better job at hiding myself than you are. Maybe that stuff is relative.”

“We still don’t know anything about each other!” Cook notes, shrugging. 

“Except that I’d fuck you.” 

His eyes dart to me, his face and body not following. I notice him lick his lips, then clench his jaw. 

“Sure, that.”

“I’m Russian, from here. You’re British, from… wherever.”

“Southeast.”

“Okay, yeah, wherever.” Cook rolls his eyes at this, passes back the nub of cigarette we have left between us. I turn yet another corner, again with no warning. We like to keep him guessing. 

“You do ‘security’,” I make a point to use air-quotes, which predictably makes him as uncomfortable as I had anticipated it would, “I work at a coffeeshop and host some parties on the side.”

“I don’t speak to my parents!” Cook chirps, now invested in my assessments. 

“Cool! Neither do I.” As if to emphasize that pain, I punt the cigarette across the street, relishing in the view of it skipping down a pothole, sparking as it bounced. 

“I have a complicated relationship with…  _ libations _ , too.” I pat my fannypack like a pregnant woman would her engorged belly. 

“Don’t we all.” Cook shivers a bit, “How far are we?”

“Not long now, and I’ve got a crazy powerful radiator, so you won’t suffer long.”

“The cold is different here. By us it’s so wet it gets in your bones. Here it’s so dry it burns.” As if to prove his point, he rubs his hands together. 

“You make it sound so poetic.” I shove my hands into my sleeves. 

“Not on purpose, I promise ya.”

“Look, up this street here. Then we’re right there.”

“Fuckin’ A.”

“Great, right? I don’t have to rely on trains for  _ everything _ .” 

“So what is it you’re gonna show me?” He sets his eyes back on me, this time scanning me up and down. Slowly. So, so slowly. I wonder briefly if he’s trying to drive me insane.

“It’s a surprise.”

  
  



	8. VIII

Author’s Note:

While I can never be sure quite how many of you there might be, if at all, I feel compelled to apologize to whoever is reading for my absence. I’m writing this 25-12-2020 and don’t anticipate publishing this chapter until well into the new year, since i have my last exams coming up and i do have to pass them. Don’t think this is me disappearing…. By the end of March I'll have so much time on my hands I won’t know what to do with it other than continuing this little pandemic project of mine. I hope you’re enjoying it, please leave a review if you’d like, they put a big smile on my face every time. Critique is also warmly welcomed! Opportunities to improve don’t come by as often as I’d like them to. Enjoy and thank you for reading. 

  
  


After changing course one final time, we linger at the corner waiting for the light to turn, gesturing down the street, I announce, “There’s me. But we gotta swing by the bodega first.”

“The  _ what _ ?” 

“Bodega. Corner store. The place where you get stuff.”

“Stuff like what?” Cook asks, clearly still perplexed.

“Everything…” I start, unamused by his continued confusion, “Whatever. You’ll see.” I grip his wrist and drag him across the street. 

Striding confidently by, I make brief eye contact with Omar at the counter. He smiles broadly.

“Habibti! Nice to see you again. Love the shoes, sister.”

“Thanks, Omar. Just here to grab a few beers, see you in a sec.”

“Take your time, habibti.”

As Cook and I approach the dimly-lit refrigerators in the back, he asks, “Are you muslim or summat?”

I laugh, “No, dumbass. First of all,  _ like I said _ , I’m Russian. Secondly, he calls us all habibi because he can’t be bothered to remember everyone in the neighborhood’s name,” I open a door, peering at a row of Sapporos, “Besides, he doesn’t need to. We all know his name, that’s enough.” 

“Right…” Cook starts to peruse the shelves behind me, resting his hands momentarily on packets of Fritos and chili lime pork rinds, before snatching a packet of takis off the shelf. I reorient my focus to the beers.

“Do you have any preference? Part of me wants to get the bang out of my buck by getting some disgusting 9.0 IPA, but I don’t know if I can stomach it.” I squat before the open fridge door, exploring the lower shelves.

“Whatever you like, I’ll drink. I’m not particular. What’s  _ fuego _ ?” 

“Fire.” I don’t turn to look at what he’s asking about (I make the educated guess he’s gripping those purple Takis I spotted on the way in). I’m trying very hard to see if I can read the caloric information on the boxed six packs without being noticed. I wonder if it’s presumptuous to assume I’m being watched.

“In a flavor context, though?”

“Spicy, I think.”

“Get the Sapporos.”

“I thought you ‘weren’t particular’.”

“Suggestion. You seemed indecisive.”

I cannot rouse suspicion, so I gather four Sapporo tallboys in my arms, gracefully kicking the door shut as I stand. I realize he’s still holding the Takis when I turn to face him. 

“You should try those!” I cajole, stepping around him, relishing the half-second in the tight aisle where we almost, barely, touch. Inadvertently, we lock eyes for that half-second, but I avert my gaze just before it becomes weird. 

Omar mumbles something about doing the macarena (what i’ve gathered is his euphemism for a party) while ringing up each item. I decline a bag when he asks, opting to hurriedly pull Cook to the side once I’ve paid. He pulls a sour face.

“But my crisps....?”

“On the house,” says Omar, “Welcome to America!”

“Well nice of ya, but I insist--” Before his hand can make moves waistward, I shove a Sapporo in each coat pocket instead.

“Thanks, have a good night!” I crow, grasping Cook’s wrist once more and jogging back into the frigid night. 

In a fugue, I lead us back down the block and up the four steps of my stoop. I hesitate for a second before punching in the code. I wonder, yet again, if i’m risking something doing this. Opening my home to this strange older man neither I nor anyone else have any reason to trust. And yet… And yet, and yet. Muscle takes over, and we’re in and up the stairs. I tip over when I stumble up the last step, careening towards my door, loose in the joints.

Cook seems to make some move to catch me, but I’m falling forward. I fumble with keys, briefly. I find the one with the silver glitter nail polish painted on the head. Most of the keys I own look the same. I push, wrist twist, the door  _ thunks _ open. The rush of warm air from inside creates a strange, suffocating vacuum, and I wonder again how I ever breathed without telling myself to. And I step forward. 

I step forward, and then I step back, suddenly. 

“We were supposed to go on the roof,” I reveal. Eyes on the glittered key, still hanging on for dear life in the lock, a cascade of trinkets tumbling from its ring.

“Ah. But we were supposed to warm up.” Cook notes plaintively.

“Oh. Right.” I pause stupidly. It seems for a second I am rebooting, and when my brain starts back up again, I’m not entirely convinced that I looked normal in that moment. 

I push the door open, maybe too aggressively. It slams into the side table, the jingling sound echoing uncomfortably in the empty room. I put together that my house looks like shit now that I’m looking at it with the self-conscious critical eye of a host. I blush slightly, feeling my ears burn, the effect exemplified by the heating  _ some idiot _ left on. I shrug off my coat, indicating to Cook that he was welcome to hang his coat on the same rack as me. I remember I was the one who left the heating on. 

I say, “ha,” under my breath. 

Cook, halfway through unfastening his coat buttons, asks, “What?”

“I left the heating on,” I mumble, realizing once I started I was digging myself deeper again.

“That was the idea, wasn’t it? Or were you lyin’ and are you trying to take advantage of a lady?” Cook stops unbuttoning and preens himself, performing what I suppose is his best impression of a regency-era woman. In his teeth, I see the shark again, wide-mouthed and thrilling. I clamp my mouth shut and cup my hands over my ears. 

“Shall we have a drink?” I ask.

“Yeah, let’s have at it, then.” With both hands he presents the bottles on my small living room table, narrowly avoiding knocking the powder-dusted mirror off its precarious position: balanced on an empty plastic cup of what used to be iced coffee. Where my dumb ass left it. I nervously snatch it away, embarrassed-- both by it and by the delusion I’ve concocted where it’s become the center of attention. Well, actually, now that I’ve picked it up and am just standing here in silence… it is the center of attention. So I am deciding to run with it. 

“I’m also going to do another line?” I make it a question, for no reason other than to protect myself from what I feel is inevitable disapproval.

“Are you offering?” he asks, eyes absolutely unreadable.

“If you want any, it’s there.” 

“Absolutely,” he says, pulling some fucking face that I guess is supposed to indicate nonchalance. But I was looking for an answer of the yes/no variety. He opens his beer with such a thunderous sound that I’m sure it was on purpose. As if to taunt me. 

I fall into a squat, still holding the mirror like a dinner plate. I rest it on my knees. I make a decision. I open my own beer. I make some space on the table, consolidating piles of glasses and gathering all the garbage into the ashtray. After replacing the empty space with the offending mirror, which warps my face hideously, I ferry the ashtray to the trash can. The silence is overwhelming but I don’t know what to make of it. Whether I should fill it,  _ how _ I would fill it. If I should be mad somehow that he isn’t taking that initiative himself. I remind myself I’m a modern woman and I shouldn’t care this much, if at all. And I don’t. I just would also enjoy the attention. The validation. The measurable proof of my value as a woman, by that metric I vehemently hate but judge myself by in perpetuity. I gaze into the abyss of my home’s trash.

I whip myself around to face him, from ten feet away. We lock eyes. I make up an orchestral sting in my head to accompany it. My face melts into a smirk.

“So, two lines?”


	9. IX

“Two lines… for you?”

“For fuck’s sake, no. I can’t read your mind. I assumed you wanted one.”

“Ah.” he says. 

I pace from the trash can to the front door, still nervously clutching the ashtray, knuckles glowing bright white. To myself, I shake my head, unsure of my next move. Cook takes these unattractive, massive gulps of his beer, following me up and down the common room with his eyes only, barely moving another muscle. I tire of this fairly quickly. With no room for second-guessing, I finally decide to return to the table, bouncing slightly as I do. Keeping it light, keeping it friendly. 

I squat where I had before, this time keenly self-conscious of the length of my skirt, and of the now-visible, pockmarked patch of thigh between boot and hem. I dutifully drape my upper body over my knees to hide. I contemplate escaping this tension I’ve created (or perhaps only exacerbated, who knows anymore) to find some cardigan or blanket to cocoon myself in. In the silence, I fail to come to terms with how I’m feeling about all this. Trying to understand these unrecognizable thoughts flying by one another in my head is like trying to stare at a single tree while whizzing past it on a freeway. I crack my neck, tugging at a loose strand of hair. Falling back into old habits. I crack a finger or two for good measure.

“All right, here’s something,” the Woman Who Lives In My Head says, “I’m nervous around you. Which is unusual.”

“Are you frightened of me?” Cook asks. At first, this confuses me. No, fear isn’t especially the primary agent of anxiety here. I’m not  _ really _ scared for my life, no. If I were I’d let go of some of these expensive vices. 

“Not at all,” says The Woman Who Lives In My Head, “It’s a little more complex than that, I’d say. The vibe is different in here… isn’t it, Cook?” She uses his name like she knows what to do with it.

“Yes, I’d say it is,” he leans forward at the waist, his shirt collar drooping down. His sternum is at eye level. I want to dive down his shirt. Nestle deep inside it. His sternum gazes back at me. Daring me, maybe. 

Cook says, “Intimate.” 

I blink. 

“Intimate.” I echo uselessly. 

There’s a moment there where I think,  _ in the movie version of this scene this is when we’d start kissing. _ I get dangerously close to leaping over the table into his lap.

All of the sudden, he crows, “These lines, then?” 

I almost glower at him, catching myself before I can summon the totality of my rage. It infuriates me how effortlessly, how  _ casually _ , he changes the subject right before the moment I might swallow him whole.

“These.... Lines… then…” I mumble, reaching uncomfortably across the table, mere inches above the smooth right angle of his knees. I pluck my fanny pack from between sofa cushions. Taciturn, I dip my fingers into each pocket, feeling for the glass vial. 

“Do I make you uncomfortable?” He inquires.

“Do you make me uncomfortable.” I repeat. 

“Yes. Do I, James Cook, make you feel uncomfortable?”

“Maybe.” I tap out cocaine on the mirror, killing time. I rummage again for cards, bills, unhurried. Letting the moment run its course. Hoping to no avail that if I play dead, this part of the conversation gets to end. The part in which my steadfast attachment to honesty runs the highest risk of shooting me in the foot. 

“Point absolutely taken, I say!” Cook chuckles, trying to bring levity to a conversation he himself absolutely atom-bombed with unease. He’s a menace.

“No, I mean. I don’t know. I don’t know, dude. Maybe.” I say things to fill the void, meaning be damned. 

“Nah, nah, it’s okay, I know I can be a bit much--”

“No! No. you’re not too much, no. I just… I can’t really describe it.” I chop up the last line, shifting my weight nervously while I roll up a dollar.

Cook starts saying stuff again. 

Inch by inch I wind the bill into a tight tube, before stopping in my tracks to announce, “This is your dollar.”

“My dollar?”

“The one you tipped out to me this afternoon.”

“How do you know that?” he splutters, indignant, “the money’s all the  _ same color _ !”

“I--,” I choke on my own words. How quite to discuss The Dollar?

“I just have a feeling,” I say, by way of explanation. Now is not the time. I’m trying to take some fucking cocaine and get the edge off. Or put it on, whatever the moment ends up calling for. 

“Some feeling. Why did you tell me that?”

“I--,” and he’s caught me again. Seems there’s no wriggling out of this one. 

“Don’t take it badly,” he reassures. His eyes tell me nothing. 

“I’m not taking it badly, I just…” Without warning, swing my head down and sniff, hard. The dollar he touched, that he  _ gave me _ , meeting the edges of my left nostril for barely a second. Disgusting. 

“I just…” my voice, nasal and whiny, sounds awful. I pinch my nose to exacerbate the effect, “I just had a sensation!”

He doesn’t laugh. I don’t know if I even really thought he would. I just don’t want to answer the question. I tell him so. It’s quiet again, save for the soft tapping of my card on the mirror. And my quickening breath. With the arm hanging at my side, I blindly fumble to find my phone in the mess of the table (with the ultimate goal of bluetooth speakering my way into filling the room with sound). I try to multitask but it’s not my forte. I glance down at the so-so line I’ve sliced, and shrug. I flap my hand vaguely in Cook’s direction. 

“All yours,” I push the mirror about a millimeter in his direction. I can’t be  _ too _ keen.

For reasons unbeknownst to me (but perhaps known to the Woman Who Lives In My Head), I put on  _ That’s Life _ , a Frank Sinatra album I played with unsettling frequency my third year of college. Call it a safety blanket, maybe. Or it’s that She thinks Ol’ Blue Eyes is capable of putting anyone in the mood. 

“Oh,  _ you’ve got to be joking me _ !” Cook shouts. Like lightning I whip my head up towards him. His face is golden-bright. The tungsten tone of my living room’s lighting turns his hair into wheat fields, his eyes into pools of molten gold, his skin into rich desert slopes, the planes of his face soft dunes in the orange glow.

“You like Sinatra?” I ask quietly. I almost start to preemptively offer to change it, but before I can, Cook nods furiously, smiling so gleefully I wonder if She knows something I don’t. 

“Nothin’ that man can do wrong, I say.” With this, he leans forward to take his line. His movements are sharp and purposeful, weirdly like how I’d imagine a falcon would take cocaine. His eyes dart to me before his body follows suit to face me. If I didn’t know any better, I’d think he was checking for my approval. So I give up on the game I’m forcing myself to play. Not for good, not even for tonight. But I’m done with it for right now. I inhale like it’s the last time I'll meet oxygen.

“You’re incredibly hot. I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable how forward I’m being. There’s just something about you that makes me act like an idiot. But I’m tired of guessing why you came here. So I have to ask you, why did you accept my offer?” I release my breath, finally. An awful, pregnant silence follows. I want to rip my tongue out. But then Cook sucks his teeth.

“I didn’t know what we were going to do. And you’re the first person I’ve had in a while offering mystery. That’s why I  _ came here _ .” He puts such a confusing emphasis on  _ came here _ , it’s almost as if…

“You’re asking the wrong question,” he says. Oh. Beat me to the punch.

“What question should I ask?”

“Why did I come to that club, maybe.”

“Okay. That, then.”

“Because I think you’re  _ incredibly hot _ .” He mimics my accent, badly. I snicker a little, hoping it hides the blush I can feel creeping up my neck to my ears. 

“Oh. Cool, then.” I tug on my earlobe, adding, “Your R’s are all wrong. You British people just don’t know how to hit ‘em.”

“Yeah, we’re shit at it. Y’know, it just feels like you’re all putting in this… this MONUMENTAL effort to sound it out, but you use that sound so much it obviously must be easy for you.”

“It is! Just like, press your back teeth together and sorta… curl your tongue and breathe out. Like this,” and I start to  _ rrrr _ , feeling the pleasant vibration run from my diaphragm through to my ribcage, rattling in my throat.

Cook joins me, his  _ rrrr _ not sounding nearly as crisp as mine. 

“Watch out, do you hear how when you do it, it sounds like you’re introducing a vowel sound that doesn’t need to be there? Like you’re saying  _ errr _ instead of just  _ rrrr _ .”

“Too right, Mina. Too right. I suppose the longer I spend here, the closer I’ll get to it.”

“Most likely. My mom clearly sounds Russian but certain words for her are fully Americanized now. Language is all about hearing, really.” I start to wonder if I’m talking from my comfortable academic space to avoid the inevitable.

“Are you warmed up now?” I ask, acting in opposition to myself.

“I’d say so, yeah.”

“If it’s cool with you, I’m gonna roll a j and then I can show you the roof?”

“Erm… yeah, cheers, that sounds lush.”

“Right, okay, so just give me a second.”

He gives me a second.

I take 128 of them. I even take the time to count.


End file.
